


Sanctuary

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Church Sex, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Pre-Series, Religious Content, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-02-12
Packaged: 2018-05-19 22:53:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5983360
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When they see the little, decrepit chapel it is after hours of rain and mud.  It's as good a place as any to spend the night for shelter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sanctuary

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jlarinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda/gifts).



> If there was an AO3 tag that was "Aramis has emotional constipation", it would certainly apply to this fic. 
> 
> Anyway, this is a fic I've been working on for a few months now and finally wiped off the dust to work on it. It's originally a prompt from JL who asked for sex in a church during an early mission of theirs. Hello friend, enjoy the gift of porn.
> 
> This is placed pre-series, so enjoy.

When they see the little, decrepit chapel it is after hours of rain and mud. Aramis’ good cheer has long evaporated, replaced by a kind of whining that is distinctly grating to the both of them. Porthos, too, is on edge: he is not used to the forests, has only recently started leaving Paris at all thanks to his position amongst the musketeers. He doesn’t speak of it, but Aramis knows it’s so – and also knows that if Porthos doesn’t get his boots off soon, it’ll be likely Porthos never look at him kindly again. 

“We should stop here,” Aramis volunteers, and would have volunteered it regardless to the state of a building they might come across. It’s a little thing, Protestant in nature by the looks of it – unless the stained glass common in Catholic places of worship have been broken or stolen away. Regardless, he seizes Porthos around the wrist and tugs him along. Porthos goes with him. 

The situation is bleak once Aramis drags Porthos inside. There are holes in the roof, some of the pews covered in distinct moss and mold. Most of the windows are broken and it’s hardly warmer in here than it is outside. But it is, at least, a means to wait out the summer storm that’s pushed through France. 

Beside him, Porthos removes his hat, scrubs his hand through his hair and little droplets shed off, slide over his knuckles and down onto the floor. It is horrendously endearing. 

Porthos feels his eyes on him and pauses, looking uncertain. “Oh – is this allowed?” 

Aramis blinks, taking a moment to understand the question – and then he smiles and shakes his head, removing his hat and cloak as well. “It’s alright,” Aramis says, already cheering a little now that they aren’t beneath the insistent rain. “Although we won’t be able to build a fire in here.” 

He’s looking around the room as he says it – it is truly a small church, hardly anything shied away that hasn’t fallen to the elements or scavengers. Aramis strays from Porthos for a moment, scanning the room for any side rooms – but there doesn’t seem to be any at first glance. And no confession booth. Protestant, then. Aramis spends a moment looking up at the bare cross on the wall beyond the pews, the Christ absent from the iconography. He breathes out, closes his eyes, and murmurs the tiniest prayer of gratitude that such shelter could be found for the two of them. 

The day is dragging on and they likely would not have made it to their rendezvous with the rest of the musketeers before nightfall – and it’s good that he can get Porthos out of the chill and cold. If they have a slight delay, it should be alright – they have a window they need to arrive in, and if they set out early tomorrow morning it should be fine. Hopefully by then the rain will have cleared. 

They spend the next few minutes looking through the decrepit old chapel, searching out any supplies they could use. Aramis does manage to find a mossy old blanket that might have once been a robe or cloak. Porthos finds some candles and an old lantern that, with some effort, they manage to light. 

Aramis sighs out, rubbing his hands together. “It’s a shame about the fire, though. I’d like to be warming up by now.”

“Don’t worry,” Porthos tells him. “We have to find the most contained area away from any windows, and if we stick close it should be fine.”

There’s a touch in his voice, a thin vein of longing and self-hatred that Aramis has begun to recognize – whenever a conversation veers too close to where Porthos comes from. Aramis swallows down, knows at once that he needs to banish Porthos’ cresting mood. He steps close. Touches Porthos’ back. Slides it slowly, comforting. 

“It’s only for the night,” Aramis tells him and Porthos nods. 

They stand in a low silence. Then Aramis breathes out. 

Aramis looks at Porthos and his timbre changes when he says, “There’s more than one way to warm me up.”

Porthos laughs as Aramis drags a finger down along the length of his neck – and good. That’s what Aramis wanted, that’s what he’d needed to hear. Porthos’ expression lightens up immediately, and the shadows pass from his eyes. Aramis smiles, too. Touching for the sake of touching. 

Porthos waits, though – he always does wait: waits for Aramis to step closer, waits for Aramis to tip his chin up and kiss him. He still moves uncertainly, still unsure of how the world might form around him. Aramis longs for the day when Porthos steps to him, instead, the day when Porthos initiates the moment instead. He can wait as long as it takes. It’ll be worth it. 

“We’re in a church,” Porthos says. “ _Really_ , Aramis?”

“It’s a chapel,” Aramis protests, but Porthos is leaning in a little closer and that fuels Aramis on and he leans up to meet him – kisses around Porthos’ crooked, uncertain smile. Still too uncertain. 

He cups Porthos’ cheeks, biting back a smile – too on edge, too close to second-guess this, to pull away from this whim. Relief, really – that Porthos should come to meet him halfway like this. 

The chapel is shimmering with shadows, the dull thud of rain against its roof, sliding down through the cracks. Somewhere in the building, there is a puddle that’s filling slowly – that steady drip and drip and drip. Little of this matters. At a backwards glance, not wanting to pull from the kiss, Aramis scopes the room – searches out a spot where they might rest, might get _comfortable._

Porthos ends up pushing Aramis to a wall and Aramis lets out a delighted whine at that. He weaves his arms around Porthos’ shoulders, kisses him as their bodies slot together. He slides his leg up over the outside side of Porthos’ leg, hooks his calf around the back of Porthos’ thigh, draws him in closer. Their kiss is slow and sloppy, taking time, getting to know one another like this. They have done this many times before – in back alleys, in hidden shadows. Although the chapel now is empty, Aramis still feels the thrill of being exposed like this, out in the open, no mistaking what they’re doing – not like this, not with Porthos’ mouth soft against his, the slightest curve of a smile there. 

It’s how they end up sprawled out on a pew at the back row – and it feels deliberate, the way Porthos follows behind him, the way they both sit down at the pew at first before they turn into each other, kiss slowly. Porthos bites down at his lip and Aramis lets out a little whine, encouragement. Out in the open like this. Exposed. For all to see – for God to see. 

Aramis drapes his arms around Porthos’ neck – and Porthos grips him under his thighs and hoists him up into his lap. Aramis makes a soft, hitching breath of delight and shifts for balance, dragging himself down into Porthos’ lap. Porthos’ mouth is warm and scraped with laughter, the drag of his beard across his chin. Aramis kisses him again and again – no teeth, but with intent. He has a point to make. He has a need – and he weighs himself down upon Porthos, grips him at the back of his neck to keep him close – and kisses him deeper. 

Porthos’ breath hitches and it’s a victory that Aramis preens for – he ducks lower and sucks Porthos’ bottom lip into his mouth, drags his teeth this time. He breaks the kiss only so he can kiss and bite down along Porthos’ neck, sucking into the skin so that Porthos’ hitched breath swells into a soft curse, an exhalation of Aramis’ name like a prayer. He can feel the stir of Porthos’ cock against him as he sits in his lap and – yes. Yes, yes. 

He nips at Porthos’ earlobe, sucks the earring into his mouth and drags his lips down over his jaw. Both of Porthos’ hands fall down his back, wide and strong and gentle, palms at his ass to pull him down closer – to feel the swell of his cock against his. He lets Porthos repeat the motion, friction through their layers of fabric. The chill in the air from the rain starts to disperse and even the clinging of rain water against his clothes no longer seems to bother him in favor of hooking his fingers in Porthos’ coat and drawing him in closer. 

“Usually you’re more teasing,” Porthos observes between kisses as Aramis works at the buttons to Porthos’ coat, starts stripping him down. They have done this several times before, but not too often – only so many times as Aramis can count on one hand. But he wants more, always wants more – wants dozens of times more if he can get away with it. 

“Shall I slow down?” 

“It’s fine,” Porthos murmurs. 

“All the better,” Aramis drawls out, more bravado than he actually feels – unable to pinpoint exactly why the words, the touch of his hand, should make Aramis’ heart beat so much faster like this. There is a wind pushing through the fractured windows around them. The air in the chapel is heavy with God, with forgiveness and validation – no sin, never a sin like this. Porthos’ hands fall gently to him. He is usually all rush, no finesse and no hesitation. Now, he glances around the room before pressing his hands to Aramis’ hips. 

Aramis undoes the top buttons and then pauses to cup Porthos’ cheeks. He kisses the slopes of Porthos’ cheekbones, the dip of his nose, his lips. A wet, whispering kiss – the angle all wrong, but gentle – savoring the way his breath runs shallow with just this. 

“Does it bother you?” Aramis murmurs to his mouth, thumbs fanning over his cheeks. “That we’re here?” 

Porthos shakes his head, just barely, breathing out – and just the ghost of his breath against Aramis’ mouth and teeth is enough to send him into a wild, wanting shiver. 

“No,” Porthos answers. Then pauses and adds, “I don’t… Does it bother you?” 

“Oh, no,” Aramis tells him.

“It’s a church,” Porthos tells him.

“A chapel,” Aramis reminds, kisses the corner of his mouth, the drag of his beard over his cheek. He nuzzles at his jaw. “It’s alright.” 

“How can it be?” Porthos asks, but isn’t pulling back. He squeezes Aramis’ hips, keeps him close when Aramis threatens to shift away. 

Aramis can’t convey the answer – can’t say it. That holiness for him has always been an extension of his breathing. That the way his God loves him is not the same as other men might say. That holding Porthos like this here, down here on earth with him like this – that in itself is a holiness. The taste of his mouth, the slump of his cheeks, the weight of his hands against his sides, his hips. That is salvation for Aramis. That is reverential, inconsequential surety of his humanity, of God’s forgiveness. This is—

He cannot say these things. Not yet. They hit him too hard in the center of his chest, the fisting around his heart speaking to something he hasn’t yet spoken, hasn’t yet admitted to himself. 

“Aramis?” 

“I’ll tell you later,” Aramis tells him. “Please… kiss me.” 

Porthos chuffs out a small laugh, tilting his head. His hand reaches up, touches Aramis’ cheek. 

Aramis breathes out, feels his heart thud up into his chest. He leans into the touch. His eyes flicker, then close. “Porthos,” he breathes out. “You want this, too.”

“Always,” Porthos agrees. 

Porthos tips his chin, kisses him properly – heavy, reverent focus that leaves Aramis gasping against his mouth. He squirms, moves closer. 

He strips off Porthos’ coat, drags it down off his shoulders, and drapes it down on the pew. His own coat soon follows, creating a soft cushion to land on. He twists in Porthos’ lap, moves, presses his hands to Porthos’ shoulders and pushes him down horizontal onto the pew, leaning down after him. He kisses him and kisses him – and then kisses him more once the kiss starts to ebb. 

He can’t tell Porthos this yet – that he has begun to understand the gospel of Porthos’ laughter, the way the sun catches his hair and he seems to glow in the mid-day sun, even when there is blood on his uniform, even when he is focused and determined and reverential. He hasn’t told Porthos yet, doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to say it – that he sees God in all things, that he has always seen God in all things, but that he finds himself breathless whenever he looks at Porthos in his blazing glory – the sag of his shoulders as he relaxes against him after sex, the tilt of his smile as he booms out his laughter, the slant of his brow as he fights like it is the last fight he will ever do and he is willing to go down swinging. 

He hasn’t been able to tell Porthos yet that he is heaven, he is earth, and he is all in between. That he is a gift to him, from God. That he is beauty and salvation. That he is everything. That Aramis—

Not yet. 

Their clothes fall away piece by piece. Aramis wants to take control of this – needs to tease it out of Porthos, as always, needs to be confident – but Porthos moves with such surety now that he has this permission. Now that he can focus on Aramis and not the house they reside in. They have only ever discussed religion briefly. Aramis knows this. Aramis knows that God does not often reach the corners of the Court, that Porthos’ relationship with holy things is strained and far between. Aramis does not know how Porthos might view sin, has never asked him this—

But this, this oh no. This could never be a sin. This could only ever be kindness, joy. This could only ever be—

No, not yet. He can’t think the word yet. 

Porthos’ hand curves over Aramis’ hip, thumb so close to his cock – not quite teasing, for Porthos does not tease, but the promise of more. Aramis breathes out, shaky, mouth dry. 

“Porthos,” he whispers. 

“Yeah, I know,” Porthos agrees, his smile quirking up – looking more at ease now. He falls to his knees on the floor and Aramis shifts to accommodate him, drapes his legs over his shoulders. He touches at Porthos’ hair, threads through it. Porthos looks up at him like he, too, is seeking salvation. 

But then, perhaps that is only Aramis projecting. He does not have a chance to contemplate it, does not have a chance to consider the sight of Porthos kneeling before him, about to worship him as if he is worth worshipping – because Porthos moves forward, his touch gentle as he runs his palms over Aramis’ calves, as he leans in, kisses the slope of Aramis’ stomach. Like this, oh, like this – it is usually Aramis on his knees, it is usually Aramis laying worship to Porthos. But this—

Porthos hums out, kissing his hip, the inside of his thigh. “This going to be enough?” 

“Mm,” Aramis hums out, inquisitive. 

“We’re all the way out here. We could suck each other off back home just fine,” Porthos tells him. 

“We had to be quiet then,” Aramis tells him, contemplative. He likes being loud. He likes shouting his praises, likes the thought that even God Himself can hear him – would want to hear him, like this, finding life worth living. Finding love—

But no use thinking of that now. 

“Yeah,” Porthos says, quiet. He looks up at him, eyes flickering across his face – searching. “It’s not the same.”

There is a weight to the words – and Aramis’ throat goes dry. He threads his fingers into Porthos’ hair again, cradles his skull gently. Porthos presses a sloppy kiss to a raised scar on Aramis’ thigh. 

“Oh, Porthos,” Aramis sighs out – has no follow-up. No real reason to say it. Porthos hums out in response. An absurd tremor runs through Aramis and he flexes his legs over Porthos’ shoulders. 

“You alright?” Porthos asks. He leans in closer again, presses his mouth to Aramis’ belly button.

Aramis whispers, “Please.” 

Porthos breathes out, then laughs – deep from his throat. “You can be as loud as you want, you know.”

Aramis’ heart starts beating faster, something there that he cannot quite reach, isn’t ready to reach – and Porthos’ hands cup his thighs, pull them apart, and he leans down. Porthos licks slow up the inside of his leg, and Aramis breathes out a whine at the scrape of beard against his leg. He feels the drag against his cock when it nudges up to Porthos’ cheek. 

Porthos breathes out, moves his head, takes the cock into his mouth and then bobs his head down – slow, leisurely, so unlike him. Aramis would close his eyes – if their situations were reversed, he’d close his eyes and give into the taste and touch of the cock on his tongue. On the receiving end now – he can’t look away. He curls his fingers tight into Porthos’ hair and can’t stop looking at him. 

It is magnetizing, watching the way Porthos moves between his legs – settled now, more reassured. The chapel for him melts away and all that’s left is drawing out the reedy sounds of Aramis’ breathless moans. The shadows cast by the rain dripping down the windows splays out over the pews as the sun sets too far away for them to see. It will be dark soon. They should be worried about staying dry, staying warm—

Like this, though, Aramis loses himself in the touch of Porthos’ mouth, the slick of his tongue and the pillow of his lips against flesh. Aramis bites his lip, wants to cry out, wants to shudder and fall apart – wants to tell Porthos to pull away just so they can change their positions, just so he can get on his knees and worship Porthos the way he needs to be worshipped. 

Porthos’ breath drags over his skin, makes him shiver. He can’t stop looking at him. He barely has a voice, barely has breath left to moan out his praises. He tips his head back, then tips it forward soon after – doesn’t want to stop looking at Porthos, mouth around his cock. It is no warped divinity, no absentminded guidance: of course Aramis should find God in this chapel, as he finds God in all things worth living for, in worth loving—

He swallows back his own voice. Shudders. Cries out. Twists his fingers and tugs Porthos down closer. Porthos’ mouth goes slack with yearning, slides down over him – swallows around him, tongue laving from crown to base. 

_Please,_ he could tell him now. Or, _Go faster. Don’t tease me._ Or, _Slow down – let me show you._ Or, or, or – Or, _I l—_

Porthos bows his head – and Aramis can only see the thick curls there, the fan of his eyelashes as he considers Aramis’ cock, suckles and sucks, laves and lavishes. It is too much. It is not enough.

“Porthos,” he whispers out, his heart a restless thudding in his chest. “Please – don’t – don’t be—”

The _don’t_ stammers out of him but stills Porthos instantly. He draws back, looks up – worry etching his brow. Aramis’ throat goes dry. 

“Oh,” he whispers, cups Porthos’ cheeks. “No, no – you’re good. You’re so wonderful.” 

Porthos is staring at him now, though, waiting for his permission, waiting for his indication. He is ready to withdraw. He is ready to relent – still unsure what it is that Aramis wants, what he needs. They have only done this so many times. Porthos has never sucked his cock before – Aramis has never let him, always eager to do it for Porthos instead. And—

“I only – I need you to be where I can…” 

He trails off, embarrassed suddenly. Porthos’ lips twist up in confusion, never frustration. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Aramis offers, weakly, the crushing weight against his chest coalescing into something he can’t ignore. He is changing everything. He knows this. This is not teasing. This is not goading, this is not friendship alone. This is—

Porthos reaches up, curls his arm around Aramis – lets his legs fall down and splay open. He moves up and Aramis yields to him, surrenders to him, lets himself bathe in the syllables of Porthos’ words – the sound of Aramis’ own name on his tongue. 

“Alright,” Porthos whispers, and his voice is tight – not with anger, not with confusion, but with a slowly clamped down emotion. His eyes are softer up close like this – Aramis watches as he moves up. _Beautiful,_ he’d called him and hates to think that Porthos has never been called that before. Porthos asks, “What is it?” 

Aramis almost laughs, a pitiful sound, but it never quite forms in his throat. He moves closer, shifts – lets Porthos sit down again and climbs into his lap again – the slick feeling lingering from Porthos on his cock – sliding up against Porthos’ belly. He clings to him because he does not know what else to do. 

“I want to see you,” Aramis whispers. “Like this. I want to – let me see you.” 

Porthos looks uncertain for a moment, brow slanted. There’s the touch, the shadow, of a smile at the corner of his mouth – not teasing, but disbelieving. Aramis touches at it with his fingertip, then smoothes his mouth with his thumb. 

“You are so beautiful,” he says again, bolder this time. 

Porthos’ expression flickers. 

“Oh,” he says, and he sounds choked off. He shakes his head. Flickers his eyes away. Aramis cups his cheek, turns him towards him again. Porthos watches him for a moment. 

There is nothing that Aramis can do, upon seeing such an expression, other than to lean forward and kiss Porthos. It is a tender kiss – and no longer unsure on Aramis’ part. He has given him a hundred kisses before this, it feels like, ranging from urgent to absent. This is precise, this is determined. He keeps his mouth soft, his fingers soft – he presses to him, certain. 

They kiss like this and time seems to melt away. When the kiss ebbs, when they draw back and Aramis, foolishly, presses his forehead to Porthos, Aramis says, “Please… fuck me.” 

And it is simple like this. There is no oil to prepare, but they switch their positions, Aramis’ knees on the pew and Porthos on the ground once again, kneeling before him, parting him open and licking into him to prepare him. Aramis grips tight to the back of the pew, lets out gasping, pleased sounds – louder than he’s ever been before, louder than he’s ever let himself be so that his voice rattles into the rafters, so that Porthos can hear him, so that Porthos will _know_ the pleasure that he draws out of him. 

Fingers opening him like this, tongue pressing at him, he’s shivering and shuddering – and it won’t be enough, it’ll hurt a little, but he’s still relaxing at the thought, the thought of being completed like this, the thought of having Porthos’ body pressing into him like this. 

“Ready?” Porthos asks after what feels like an eternity and Aramis whimpers out and then nods, turning before Porthos can mistake this position as the one he wants – a position where he can’t look Porthos in the eye. 

“The floor,” Aramis says, nods towards the long row between the pews. Porthos nods, too, and together they collect their clothes, the cloaks, and spread them out on the stony floor. 

Like this – it is what he needs, what he wants. Porthos’ cock slides into him and it is an exquisite slide. The curve of Porthos’ hands on his back guide him forward and their hips move in a deep, soothing slide. So careful with him – always so careful of him as Aramis stretches around the girth of his cock, twists and shudders as he rocks up into him. 

Porthos’ hand closes around his cock, slicks his hand over him as they move. The want and the need crashes into Aramis with a great force, his veins alight with that desire – and he does not hesitate as he throws his head back and moans out, arching, rocks his hips down as he rides Porthos. He grips the side of the pew next to them, uses it as guidance so he can rock down onto him. It is a tight squeeze, between the pews and around Porthos’ cock, and he is breathless. 

He plants one hand on Porthos’ shoulder for support, drags his body down over him, starts rocking faster and faster – ducks his head to kiss at Porthos’ neck and jaw, sloppy, the hollow of his throat, his mouth around the curve of his adam’s apple and then up – kissing him, desperate for it, lapping up Porthos’ moans, sighing out his name, praising him. _God, God, oh God—_

The words are there, but still unspoken. Love. Love, _love—_

Porthos licks into his mouth, bites his lip, draws him in close. Aramis moans out weakly – grips tight to Porthos as they move. Porthos thrusts into him. It is an unsteady tempo, but it is theirs—

They fill the chapel with sound. The slide of skin upon skin. Aramis’ keening whimpers, his gasping moans. Porthos’ shuddering calls of Aramis’ name – both of them unraveling, the flux of pleasure. 

Porthos bites at his shoulder, sucks a bruise against his skin – constellations of bruises over his body, a map to Porthos’ desire. His. Only his—

“Let me see you,” Aramis gasps out because that is easier to say than, _please look at me._

Porthos obeys, rocks back, thrusts his hips up, looking up at Aramis in his lap as Aramis bows over him. It is almost dark now, but the waning ebbs of sunlight touch at their shoulders, weave into their hair. Porthos’ eyes are bright. 

Their eyes meet – dark and flooded with their desire. Porthos does not look away.

“You’re beautiful, too,” Porthos gasps out, his breath hitching with his own desire. 

And this is all that Aramis needs. 

Aramis lets himself be loud, he lets himself be heard – he sobs out Porthos’ name in praise, drops his head forward to press their foreheads together as he comes. He shudders apart, moaning out and gasping, shivering as he thrusts down to meet him, the come spending between them so it presses between them. It is warm and yet Aramis still shivers, still grips him tightly. 

“Please,” he gasps out and Porthos rocks into him harder, faster, takes only a few more moments before he’s chasing after him. Aramis has to coax it out of him, kneads into the back of his neck, tilts his head and kisses him sloppily. A few moments later, and Porthos is coming inside of him – and it is exactly what he needs, all he’ll ever need. Like this. Yes, like this—

He must have lost himself for a moment, because when he comes to, he is resting against Porthos’ chest, in his lap still, but up on the pew. He breathes out, shuddering breaths, and nuzzles helplessly into Porthos’ neck. 

There is a quiver of fear now – that he has said too much, that he has done too much. That he has changed, irrevocably, that small ease they had with one another. But then Porthos turns his head and kisses his temple, and the tension eases from Aramis’ shoulders. 

They shift, Porthos falling back. They lie on the pew, Aramis cushioned on Porthos’ chest. Slow and drowsy, remembrance and consideration comes back to them slowly. Slowly they come back to the weight of the world around them. For now, though, Porthos’ arms are around him. Aramis knows he is heavy, but Porthos does not complain – never complains. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whispers, quiet. He traces his fingers over Porthos’ chest – touches at his chest hair, at his scars. Porthos hums in consideration. Aramis almost says it, and then stops. Falls quiet. 

They lay sprawled out like this. The rain falls through the hole in the roof some ways away. It is dark save for the candles flickering on the altar, the lantern a few pews forward. The shadows are long, considering. But Aramis is looking at Porthos like this. 

Porthos’ hand touches his hair. Holds him close. Slides down over his back. Takes up his hand and presses an open-mouthed kiss on his knuckles. He lingers. 

He looks up at Aramis. Aramis touches at his face, traces his nose. Cups his cheek. 

He breathes in. 

_I love you,_ Aramis thinks but does not say. No, not yet. He can’t say it yet. 

Porthos leans into his touch. Then leans in to kiss him. This, for now, is enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on [my tumblr.](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/)


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